Reliable
by CondescensionJar
Summary: Moriarty's plan wasn't to discredit Sherlock, not really. That'd have been too easy. No, Moriarty went after what Sherlock really cared about, what would have really hurt him to lose. And so, with John Watson dead and gone, Sherlock has no one to turn to but Molly Hooper - reliable, safe, Molly Hooper.
1. Reliable

A/N: Reichenbach stays the same except for two things: The very first few minutes and the very last few minutes no longer exist. Cheers.

Chapter 1: Reliable

Molly Hooper was nothing if not reliable, and reliable was what Sherlock needed right now. Reliable. Sturdy. Safe. He knew that she still loved him, knew that it would hurt her to see him the way he was, but he didn't care. He didn't care that it would break her heart to see him so clearly broken, didn't care that he was using her as an emotional security blanket. Sherlock's mind, usually so precise, so mechanical, was a frenzied, seething mass of need, grief, and rage. Something inside him had broken and he needed reliable to keep the pieces from flying apart. John Watson was dead and Sherlock Holmes needed reliable.

_Beating Sherlock had meant destroying him, and destroying him meant destroying the one thing that he held most dear. Sherlock had assumed that it was his mind that Moriarty was after, so certain that Moriarty meant to destroy his credibility, meant to make his friends doubt him, meant to make him unable to practice his unique brand of sleuthing ever again. As it turned out, he'd been wrong, for once, but it only really took once, didn't it? It was funny, incredible, even, how just by watching, just by observing from the outside, Moriarty had been able to figure out what was really important to Sherlock. It wasn't his mind. It wasn't his reputation. It was John. Moriarty had realized, even before Sherlock did, that Sherlock was absolutely, irrevocably, and completely in love with his blogger. _

_It only hit Sherlock when it was too late, when he'd quietly slipped back into his room in Baker Street after faking his own death to find John with a bullet through his head, a gun in his hand, and a note in John's blocky print that read: "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I can't do this without you." That day had marked the first time that tears had graced Sherlock's face; he'd been so afraid that he'd mess up, that Moriarty's gunman would see the switch and that John would be killed. The second instance came that night when he realized that it didn't matter, that this had been Moriarty's plan all along, that John's gunman wasn't one that he could ever really escape from. _

Molly had seen this coming. Despite appearances to the contrary, she wasn't stupid; she'd watched too (and okay, maybe it had been obvious to everyone _except _the involved parties) and she knew what John was to Sherlock. She'd grieved when she heard about Watson's death, along with everyone else who'd known him. John had beenwas a good man and he deserved far better than what he'd got. She'd grieved, but she'd also spent her time preparing herself for the inevitable, for when Sherlock realized what it is that he'd lost and for him to come running to her for comfort. It was for naught - all the preparation in the world wouldn't have mitigated the shock she felt and the sick lurch her stomach gave when she saw him turn up on her doorstep (_how did he know where she lived?_)

He had been crying. Years of unfeeling, uncaring coldness and emotional sterility had given way to the full trauma of losing his best friend, the man he was in love with, and Sherlock had cried like only a broken man can. His eyes were red and puffy, his entire face was swollen, a silhouette against the clear dark night. It was, perhaps, the first time that Molly had found him physically unattractive. "Molly" he choked out. "I... John..." He faltered. "I'm not okay."

**"**What do you need?" She whispered, leaving the warmth of her house to join him on the doorstep.

**"**You." He took one step forward, grabbed her by the back of the head and kissed her.


	2. Available

Chapter 2: Available

Molly awoke, a sick lump forming in her stomach as the events of the last night came back to her in a blur. What had she done? She'd... Well, to be fair, she hadn't really _actively _done or suggested anything, but still, not protesting or telling him to stop was a decision in and of itself. She'd reasoned that it was best to let him have what he wanted, that here before here was a man half-crazed with grief and that it was best to just give him what he asked for, but now... Well, now she wasn't so sure she'd done the right thing, much less the pragmatic one.

The other guilty party, the other resident of her bed, stirred and mumbled something that sounded an awful lot like "John". That's when Molly started to cry.

_He'd kissed her needily on her stoop, which turned into him biting her neck in her living room which in turn quickly became him ripping (literally ripping) her night-clothes off of her body and pushing her onto the bed before undressing himself and mounting her, a hungry look in his clear eyes. _

_They'd both been virgins. Neither of them had to say it; it was unspoken knowledge in the room; after all, who would bed Sherlock, cold, calculating, emotionless Sherlock? And Molly, sweet, innocent Molly: everything from the way she dressed to the way she still hopefully applied lipstick whenever she heard Sherlock might be around screamed "virgin" in bright neon letters - it was a deduction that even Anderson could be trusted to make. Sherlock hadn't lasted long - barely forty seconds and the world's only consulting detective was undone, convulsing wordlessly before slumping back against the headboard. Molly, for her part, didn't mind that he hadn't lasted. She'd felt mostly pain with very little pleasure to mitigate it - the act was one of need on Sherlock's part and acquiescence on hers; her arousal (or rather, her lack thereof) hadn't been questioned. _

_The guilt had set in as soon as he'd finished. Until then she hadn't had to think, she'd only had to not fight back, not resist. After he'd pulled out, seemingly sated, he'd fallen asleep on top of the blankets and she'd quietly pulled the sheet out from under him and wrapped it around herself before walking as quietly as she could to her shower where she did her best to clean up the fluid that matted her pubic hair. She bit her lip to try to keep back tears, but Molly Hooper had never been good at disguising her emotions. She sat underneath the showerhead and let herself cry until she felt, if not clean, at least marginally less dirty, before drying herself off and returning to her bedroom, her sheet again wrapped around her body. Sherlock was asleep, his face contorted: he was having a nightmare. He was whimpering, and despite herself, Molly knew that she was still in love with him. She watched helplessly, torn between trying to comfort the man she loved and wanting to hate the man who had just used her, who had wordlessly taken her virginity._

_She did neither. She opted instead to simply lie down next to him, still naked under the sheet, and closed her eyes and let sleep claim her body as effortlessly as Sherlock had._

Molly watched Sherlock sleep for several minutes. She wasn't really sure what to do; she'd never been particularly adept at handling situations that involved other people, and a "morning after" was something that she was woefully unequipped to deal with, _especially _under the current circumstances. The man beside her began to stir, and she realized that she suddenly desperately craved a cup of tea thank you very much, so she'd just be off now and if he wanted anything she would be in the left her bed and blushed when she realized her nakedness despite being the only one awake. She pulled on a pair of grey sweatpants and put on a white sports bra and a baggy pink t-shirt and quietly padded off to the kitchen.

She'd been sitting in silence for about an hour, sipping cup after cup of tea and wondering when Sherlock would get up, what she'd say to him, what he'd say to her, and what to do about the whole situation when she heard the front door slam shut. Had he just left?

She got up and ran to her bedroom - her bed was empty and his clothes were gone off the floor. She fell to the floor with a thump, not knowing how to react to the fact that he'd just walked in, slept with her, and left in the morning without saying a word. She cried, again, the sobs wracking her entire body.

Molly didn't leave the house that day. She didn't go to work; her boss had heard about John Watson and given her an undefined amount of time off, somehow he'd felt that being around dead bodies wouldn't help in her recovery process. It was a nice gesture and it was certainly true, on any other day she'd have loathed the idea of cutting up cadavers and inspecting their insides, but right now she rather fancied the idea of cutting up something that looked like a person.

Sherlock came back that night. He knocked on the door and Molly opened it, only half surprised when she saw his face there. There were no words this time, but really, that was the only difference. He captured her lips (that was the right word, yes, because she was just _there _and he was taking her) and the squeak she gave when their faces crashed together was the only sound she made that lost another set of nightclothes that night.

He didn't last much longer the second time around, and she didn't really care. The physical act wasn't enjoyable for her, quite the opposite in fact, but she felt, somehow, that she needed to be there for Sherlock in whatever capacity she could, and, well, if this was how he needed her, Sherlock always knew best. Still, telling herself that she was helping him didn't help assuage the guilt that was nestled in the pit of her stomach, the feeling that she _wasn't _helping and that the only reason she was going along with it was because, deep down, she loved the feeling of being needed, of being wanted.

She couldn't really say that they were "sleeping together" because it wasn't that. Even in the literal sense, it was more that they just happened to be in the same bed by virtue of there being nowhere else to sleep rather than any desire to be in each others company. It definitely wasn't "making love" and it sounded far too clinical to say that they were "having sex". So "fucking". They were fucking. No, that wasn't right either, because it implied that Molly was _doing_something other than just not stopping Sherlock from having his way. Sherlock was fucking Molly and she was merely letting him.

He left again in the morning without saying a word. She'd stayed in bed this time, watching him to see if her presence in the morning would be enough to elicit some kind of verbal response, but it wasn't. She sat, wrapped in her sheet, watching as he got up, stretched, wordlessly pulled on the clothing he'd discarded the night before and left her house without once even looking at her.

Molly cried a lot, as a rule, but these two days were going to set a record.


	3. Comfort

Chapter 3: Comfort

It became a sick routine that Molly and Sherlock had developed: a painful, emotionally destructive dance that Sherlock led, taking care to tread on Molly's toes at every opportunity. He'd be on her doorstep shortly after nightfall, he'd knock twice, and she'd open the door to let him in. He would observe her, carefully, with those clear eyes that she'd once dreamed of looking into and now could only try to not flinch under before he claimed her lips as his own. He'd push her in and rip whatever clothing she wore off her body (she'd recently taken to just stripping down as soon as she heard his distinctive knock) and they'd fall into the bedroom, where he'd mount her wordlessly and thrust until he came.

Their mornings were as predictable as their nights. Invariably Molly would wake first, watching as her... well, for lack of a better word, _bedmate_would shake in the throes of nightmares, muttering the only word she ever heard out of his mouth. "John." She'd watch, still clutching her sheets to her body, until he woke. He'd blink twice, climb out of bed, and collect whatever clothing he'd worn the night before, silently pulling it onto his body. Then he'd leave, without saying a word to Molly or even acknowledging her presence or what they'd done the night before.

And then Molly would cry.

It wasn't until nine days of this had passed that she realized that she had no idea where Sherlock went in the hours between leaving her apartment and re-entering it. She'd just assumed that he went out to solve a case, or else back to Baker Street, but she received two very similar emails that day from a very worried Mrs. Hudson and a rather frantic Greg Lestrade.

The first worried that he wasn't coming home, possibly because of what had happened with John, and did she know if he had a warm place to sleep or where he was staying?

The second expressed great concern that Sherlock hadn't been round to the office lately because _damn it all _even with Moriarty gone, London still had what seemed like more than it's fair share of serial killers who were unfortunately far too clever for Anderson and Donovan's brains to handle (surprise, surprise) and he figured that what with the unfortunate loss of John Watson she was his closest friend and did she know where he could be located?

She read and re-read both, noting with some sadness that Lestrade had a point, she _was _his closest remaining friend and that while yes, she did know where he was staying, she had no idea where he could be found.

That night, she examined Sherlock as he slept. _Where do you go? _she wondered. She got up and examined his clothing, trying to find, as he'd be able to, some evidence, some clue that would give away his daytime habits but there was nothing. She fell asleep that night resolved to figure out what it was that Sherlock did during the days, no matter what it took.

All it took, really, was to follow him out of the apartment. Sherlock gave no indication that he even realized she was behind him as she trotted a safe distance behind. Her stomach gave a funny lurch when she realized where he was going, where she had a sinking feeling he'd gone every day since the incident. She followed him to the roof of St. Bart's, and watched as he wordlessly sat on the edge of the roof, and looked down at the pavement below. He sat, simply sat, until night fell and he stood up and turned around, his face streaked with tears. Molly jumped up with a start and ran home as fast as she could - he arrived only minutes after her and so, a new step was added to their dance.

It took two more days of the new routine for Molly to come to a startling realization. _Sherlock wasn't eating_. She was spending twenty four hours a day with him, and over the last forty eight, she hadn't seen a bite of food pass his lips. She'd taken to eating before he woke up, a piece of toast with a scape of margarine, or else a bowl of cereal. It wasn't much, but it was infinitely more than he was ingesting and that was when it finally hit her: Sherlock was not okay. He never ate a lot, that was true, but this was different. If she was right (and okay, she really seldom was, but she had a good (or bad) feeling about this one), Sherlock hadn't eaten in at least _twelve days_.

He had to know she was watching. This was Sherlock. He didn't miss the birthmarks on a passing baby, much less the fact that he was being watched by who was probably the least subtle person in the history of surreptitiously watching. She retreated slowly into the doorway again, making sure that it clicked behind her. She counted to three and popped her head back out again and-

He hadn't changed position. He hadn't moved, even. If she didn't know better, she'd swear that even his hair, even those distinctive curls that she so adored, were made of stone. Still, she didn't think that he was going anywhere and that had really been the reason for her little experiment. She almost smiled to herself. Experiments. She was starting to sound like him. If foreplay was at all involved, she could say that he was "rubbing off on her" and it would be terribly clever, but it wasn't involved, not remotely, and so it was just a wasted opportunity for a joke. She sighed and scurried downstairs to the St. Bart's cafeteria, casually batting aside comments from co-workers that she hadn't seen in nearly two weeks. ("Yes, I'm fine." "No, I'm not in for work today." "Yes, your hair looks lovely dear." "On my neck? No, they're mosquito bites, I left my window open. Ha-ha, yes, I know what they look like.")

She grabbed two bags of crisps and filled two cups with coffee (cream and milk for her, black, two sugars for him) before heading back up the stairs to the roof. She paused at the door. She didn't owe him anything. In all honesty, now that she thought about it, he'd really been quite awful to her over the short period of time that they'd known each other. She shook her head and pushed all of that aside. She was still his friend. Now that John was gone, she was probably his _best_friend, and she couldn't desert him now, not when he was like this, no matter how awful he was. She walked quietly up to the raised ledge and sat down about a foot away, facing in while he faced out.

There's a minute of silence, until:

**"**I brought lunch" she said, holding up the crisps. And then there's a moment. There's a terrifying moment where she doesn't know if he's going to respond or not, doesn't know if he really _has_shut down and become the machine that everyone's been suspecting he would for ages until he does. He turns to her, and it's the first time that they've made eye contact in twelve days, despite having had sex every night in between. He looks startled, like he didn't realize that she was there, but that's ridiculous because this is Sherlock, this is Sherlock Holmes, and you can't sneak up on him, especially not holding crinkly bags of snack food.

**"**Thank... you" he said uncertainly, his throat hoarse and ragged from sobbing, his voice uncertain after a long period without use. He wiped his nose on his sleeve, straightening up as he did, and accepted the proffered bag of crisps. They ate, the only noises being the rustling of a crisp bag, the crunching of their meal, or the occasional slurp of coffee.

When the sun went down and darkness descended on London, Sherlock looked at Molly before getting up. She was taken aback at the unspoken question, but found herself nodding, and offering him a hand to help her up. He took it, and they walked to her house holding hands in silence. Molly was surprised at how intimate the gesture seemed, how it almost seemed like they were _normal _people, like he hadn't just _fucked _her twelve days in a row without saying a word. She smiled and leaned into him. She couldn't help it, this was so close, so heartbreakingly close to what she'd always wanted, and dammit, he'd treated her like shit enough recently that she was going to take every scrap of happy fantasy she could.

They reached her door and Molly's heart fell. She put her key into the lock and slowly stepped inside, heart pounding as she prepared for the return of the animalistic, savage creature that she'd cried over the last twelve nights.

Sherlock followed her lead, closing the door behind him. True to form, his head dipped down to meet hers, and- well, that was strange.**  
**  
The kiss that he laid upon her lips was cautious, gentle, and nothing like the possessive, dominant ones that had graced her lips the nights before. She opened her eyes in shock, her face frozen with surprise. He looked up, panic in his eyes; he looked lost, he looked broken, and Molly realized that there, right in front of her, was the man she loved, the Sherlock who had noticed her lipstick that day in the morgue, the Sherlock that had made her cry for trying to buy him a _gift, _not the man who had taken her the night before and the night before that.

While she was thinking, he was pulling away, backing up, and when Molly realized and looked up, she could see his eyes clouding again. She could _see_, physically see, the pain in them. He was turning, hand reaching for the door, when she knew what it was that she wanted. She didn't have to think. She put one hand on the back of his head, pulled him closer while leaning forward, and kissed him.

She felt his surprise, felt his shock in the complete inertia of his face, until he was kissing her back, and for the first time ever, Molly felt like she could say that _they _were kissing.

They didn't have sex that night. Sherlock hadn't even tried, and Molly didn't mind. They'd fumbled clumsily with each other, Sherlock coming quickly in thick, ropy strands into Molly's fist, and Molly feeling guiltily aroused as he gracelessly dragged his fingers up and down her slit. He'd kept it up for a few minutes, before she'd kissed him, red in the face, feeling like she was somehow taking advantage of him.

They fell asleep holding hands.


End file.
